


Broken Mirror

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Awkward Flirting, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would return to Seheron if I could, but there is no life for me there” – Fenris, 9:31 Dragon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Brought to you by the [Excessively Detailed Headcanon Meme](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/107427781276/the-excessively-detailed-headcanon-tumblr-meme) and a prompt from taranoire for ‘Fenris stuck in a dream and mage!Hawke helping him out.’ Check out [this](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/132810913836/es%C3%A9ndir-of-seheron-by-xla-hainex-rivaini-vashoth) amazing story art by [xla-hainex](http://xla-hainex.tumblr.com/).  
>  **Warning:** this features teenage Leto interacting with Danarius. Nothing too blatant, but if you’re triggered or just made very uncomfortable by evil, fucked-up adults being around minors, go ahead and close the browser now. Proceed at own risk.

A voice called out. A name – forgotten, yet not.

“Leto?! Venhedis, Leto! Militem nullum tempus somnia.”

 ‘… _Leto?’_

Yes, he remembered. It belonged to him, but the fit was off. Like a well-worn garment long since outgrown.

“Leto!”

“Yes, Eséndir, I heard you! And I was  _not_  daydreaming!”

He flushed as his voice cracked, boyish falsetto dipping briefly into the deeper timbre of adulthood. Mother had said it was the way of such things; that he should not feel shame for becoming a man, but he could no more stop the embarrassment burning to the tips of his ears than he could the sporadic changes in the pitch of his speech.

The tropical summer was at its zenith. Sweat prickled his brow, even in the shade of the great tree where he sat. Eséndir reached down, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. As he rose, Leto glimpsed his own skin, contrasting against the Rivaini-born elf’s chestnut complexion and felt a niggle at the back of his mind. Something was…amiss. Eséndir released him, turning to stride toward the path, yet Leto’s focus remained fixed on his hand, seeking the source of his unfounded confusion.

He’d been assigned to the kitchens with Varania that morning, acquiring a burn on his forearm when that haughty, half-human scullery maid failed to mind his presence in her path. Other than that, it was simply his arm: skin the colour of sand, slightly paler below than above and sinewy muscle. Suddenly, his vision flickered. An intricate pattern of tingling white lines flashed across the limb, the ghost of pain haunting all the way down to his fingers.

“You  _are_  a strange one, aren’t you?”

Blinking, Leto glanced up from what he realised must have seemed a very odd inspection indeed. Despite the exasperation of Eséndir’s words, he found the older youth’s lips curved in a wry, albeit fond smile that brought heat to his cheeks for reasons other than chagrin. Feeling sheepish, Leto tucked a tendril of russet hair behind his ear, returning the smile as he fell into step with his friend.

He reached back as they walked, lifting the length of his plait and shaking it slightly to force the stagnant air into circulating against his nape. The heat was truly oppressive, far from ideal for sparring, but as a member of the household guard, Eséndir’s duties were many and his opportunities for teaching a house slave which end of the sword to grip, few and far between. Leto strove to learn what he could on his own as well. He was diligent in practising his balance and his footing as Eséndir had shown him and he slipped away from chores as often as he could to watch the sentries rehearse their drills in the courtyard.

He’d found an alcove, bordered by two bronze statues (likenesses of the Archon Hessarian and Andraste if Ovidius, the household's longest surviving slave, was to be believed) that afforded a clear vantage and room enough to imitate their routine. Their master was one of few Imperial magisters with the wealth and clout necessary to maintain an estate on Seheron and attacks from Qunari and raids from the island’s scattered bands of guerrilla fighters were an ever-looming threat. He’d received many a clip about the ears for his " _prideful fancy"_  as his sister called it. And prideful he might well be, but Leto refused to accept that peeling potatoes and lugging water for the wizened estate steward’s bath would be the sum of his life.

It was not as though he could expect Rani to understand, however. She had magic. She could do what their master could and for her, something greater was all but a given. For him, a castoff sword was the only hope he had. He might have been born a slave, but he would not resign himself to dying as one. If he could gain enough skill as a warrior to prove himself, perhaps…

Perhaps he would be allowed to join the guard rather than remain with the household staff. Those warriors who distinguished themselves in the estate’s defence were sometimes permitted to transfer to the mainland and...well, his knowledge of life in Minrathous was sparse, but as large and thriving as the tales painted the city to be, it would certainly hold opportunities that the island did not. He’d heard other rumours too. Spread in hushed, hasty whispers, about the horrors inflicted on slaves – particularly those who served in the more affluent magisters’ fortresses at the capitol’s heart.

Most of it verged on absurd to Leto’s ears.

When he’d shared this assessment with his mentor, the other slave had agreed, though not without a cautionary word: “ _I’ve not encountered many mages, Leto, but…my parents, the teachings that they fled from—_ ” Eséndir had leaned close, voice low, for an Imperial slave invoking the Qun, even in reference, risked having his tongue cut from his mouth. “ _The Ashkaari teach that mages are agents of chaos, that demons beckon to them. My father told stories of their deeds. I do not hold the Qun as truth, but if there is a hint of fact behind those tales…how is justice served on those who can pluck the memory of their crime from the minds of those they’ve wronged? I cannot say._ ”

Eséndir was the first full-blooded elf Leto had met who hadn’t been born into bondage. His parents, whose love and his subsequent birth had rendered them Tal-Vashoth, had fled from Rivain to Seheron, hoping to escape the Demand of the Qun that would sunder their ties. It was a hope that’d held for many a season…until the day it did not, bringing a bloodied, half-conscious youth to his knees at the gates, bartering his autonomy in exchange for protection. Steward Cortenius had left the decision to the head of the guards: an elf-blooded Soporati by the name of Nirien. He’d assigned the newcomer to a room in the slave quarters to heal and it was there that Leto had come to befriend him.

Even injured, weak and grieving for the loss of family and freedom, Eséndir had spoken to him. He’d asked questions, about his hopes and his plans – as though such thoughts weren’t mere folly for a house slave to have – until at last, Leto had told him. He remembered waiting for this unconventional boy-man, in that halfway place between child and grown where he found himself now, to laugh or scold him for his vanity. But that was not what Eséndir had done. He’d turned thoughtful, studying him with a critical gaze. Then, he gave a single nod. “ _My father taught me the ways of the sword, little one. I—”_ he’d faltered, not yet acclimatised to the conditional vernacular of servitude, “ _if_ permitted _, I will teach you._ ”

Five winters had come and gone since that promise was made and Eséndir had proven true to his word.

“You must hold firm to your weapon, Leto. Your form is good and you’re quick on your feet, but neither are of much use if your enemy tears the sword from your hand.”

Leto blinked, startling as the solid impact of wood upon wood jarred along his arms. The question of when they’d started sparring flitted through his mind – hadn’t they just been walking toward their usual place by the stream? – when a second sweep of Eséndir’s ‘weapon’ had him blocking in reflex. The sultry air swirled against his skin and he remembered: they’d arrived, Eséndir had pulled the leather-wrapped training staves from the hollowed tree where they stored them. They’d shed their breeches and tunics in deference to the heat, leaving only their loin-coverings for modesty.

His face was flushed, hair sticking to his skin. Sweat drenched his body and compromised his hold on the length of timber serving as his blade. Eséndir was in a similar state. His skin gleamed like the statues in the courtyard, and as Leto parried and swerved, he felt a tug in his belly as ridges of muscle danced along his friend’s side, catching the sun.

It was a split-second’s distraction, not even that. But Eséndir’s reflexes were keen. Rather than completing his strike in a cleave from above, he swept low, thrusting the staff between Leto’s ankles and twisted it sharply. Leto’s eyes widened as he felt himself falling. Yet, almost instantly, Eséndir’s hand closed around his wrist, halting his descent. There was a smug grin to accompany the aid and something mulish rose in Leto. Quick as a viper’s strike, he shifted his grip to the Rivaini’s forearm and kicked outward. He caught Eséndir behind the foot that bore his weight and wrenched, throwing the full mass of his body into the push.

Eséndir began to curse, finishing with a grunt as he hit the ground. Leto came down half sprawled atop him, breath fleeing his lugs. He tried to scramble upright, but they were near to the water’s edge and moss made for treacherous footing. He slipped, collapsing against the elder’s larger frame. Eséndir did not waste the advantage. His arm slammed across Leto’s shoulders, crushing him close as he rolled. The clammy chill of lichen-covered soil hit Leto’s back like a blow. However, it was the taut heat of the body pressing in from above that drove all thought of sparring from his mind.

Leto froze, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Eséndir stilled as well, looking bewildered. Sén’s hundred beaded braids rustled about their faces, working with the babbling water to drown out the world.

Hitherto dormant instincts stirred and Leto found himself acutely aware of the scent of their exertion; of the shivery slide of skin against skin. His muscles slackened, turning pliant as the moss beneath his back. Another part of him was rapidly hardening and the will to quell it proved elusive. Eséndir, for his part, stared down in seeming wonder, as though Leto were suddenly exotic; a creature never before seen as his liquid-silver gaze became riveted to his mouth.

Leto felt the focus like a touch. Without thought, his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Eséndir’s breath caught and Leto saw the shift as his fixation turned to purpose. “I’ve never looked twice at a lad, you know?” Sén confided, reaching up to brush a sweat-soaked tendril from his brow, “but you’re fair as any maiden.”

The warrior in him might have bristled, slighted at the wording, but the teasing fondness in Eséndir’s tone negated any such inference. Instead, Leto felt a flutter in his throat as the older boy drew closer. Slowly. As though affording him the chance to turn away.

He had no wish to; curious and eager to see the moment through, yet uncertain of his part in ensuring it continued. He’d heard speculation from the chamber maids. “ _You should close your eyes,”_ Esmira had said. “ _Not too tightly, lest it be taken for reluctance.”_ Silona had nodded. _“My sister says to tilt your head. But only slightly, or he’ll take you for moechā.”_

It seemed as good a course as any and with lashes drawing down, Leto bared his throat and offered up his mouth.

The touch of lips was soft. Yielding. The barest hint of friction. With the length of their bodies aligned, that small point of contact should have been the least of it, and yet, it made him throb from mouth to groin.

Long, calloused fingers cupped his jaw. Air rushed against his cheek in a shuddering exhale. His bottom lip was sucked between Eséndir’s and a moan bled from his throat, hips rolling. Sensation rushed across his mind in bursts: the clammy earth, the susurrus of the wind, the scent of grass and loam. All were there, but muted, focus narrowed to the slide of skin and lips and tongues; the stinging clink of teeth as their ardour built.

Fighter’s tenacity aligned with lust and what began as complaisant invitation, became a counter siege as Leto moved with his body’s demands. Hands locking on Eséndir’s shoulders, he arched, hooked a leg across lean hips and pulled their loins into contact. The hot ridge of his best friend’s manhood slid along his own – only two layers of linen between them – and Eséndir broke away, gasping.

“Teth a, Leto. Maraas-lokost asaara.”

The words were foreign, guttural, and Leto felt a thrill of rebellion as he recognised the forbidden lilt of the Qunari. Eséndir was breathless, lips swollen, eyes heavy lidded as he touched Leto’s cheek and dove back in.

They found a rhythm. Uneven; rougher than was comfortable in such a rustic the setting, yet the slight discomforts only served to sharpen Leto’s need. Pleasure surged, coiling tight and hot enough to hurt. He strove to hold on, to last a little longer, but youth and innocence conspired, snapping the tension before he was ready. He felt his body seize, mouth rending from Eséndir’s as his climax tremored through him.

His friend’s breath became a sultry storm against his neck. A bruising hold on Leto’s thigh kept them pressed together. Sharp, erratic friction dragged a last twitching, aching spurts from him, until his choked, “Too much, Sén!” had the other rearing up, and stroking through his loincloth until a grimace and grunt marked his release.

Panting, Eséndir rolled to the side, only to hiss and bolt upright as the chill of the bank hit his overheated skin. Having recovered somewhat, a laugh bubbled from Leto where he sprawled, acclimatised to the contrast of cool earth and humid air. Eséndir turned to him, brow raised. He drew a breath to speak, the dimples in his cheeks promising good humour. The jest, however, remained untold as a rustle in the foliage and the distinctive tread of footsteps intruded on their sanctum.

“Well then, am I to understand that  _this_ is the customary fashion in which the servants here avail their time?”

The voice settled across Leto’s senses like frost, banishing the heat of the season and their recent passion both. It was that of Claudius Danarius. Magister of Minrathous and master of the estate –  currently in residence. Nirien and one of the senior guards trailed behind him, looking uneasy.

Eséndir was already on his feet, the fastenings of his loin-covering riding low on his hips. “We were training, Dominus,” he said, not untruthfully, though the hoarseness of his voice made it sound unconvincing.

Leto rose as well, eyes downcast. His skin prickled, achingly aware of how much of it was on display. He felt branded by the mud on his back, the twigs in his hair. Fighting the urge to place a hand before the wet spot on his loincloth made his belly hurt.

“What is your name, boy?”

Silence hovered and Leto glanced up as much as he dared. He found the master’s eyes on him – or rather, on the damp fabric covering his manhood. His stomach lurched. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, but an instinct deeper than shame pushed only words from his mouth, “Leto, Dominus.”

“Come closer,” the mage commanded and it was on watery legs that he stepped into the centre of the clearing. The master began to stride around him, bluntly assessing. Once at his back, he stopped, and every hair on Leto’s skin rose as he felt the human’s gaze trail along his spine.

“And what precisely were you ‘ _training’_ in, Leto?”

“S—swordcraft, Dominus,” he stuttered, throat threatening to close. He could not name the source of his fear. He and Eséndir had done nothing wrong. Why the master would concern himself with the desire between slaves was beyond his ken, yet the tension in the air held the weight of something looming.

“The practice canes are  _there_. On the grass. We were taking a respite. Erus.” It was Eséndir who’d spoken and the knots in Leto’s belly twisted tighter. Slaves  _never_  addressed a magister unless spoken to first – their owners least of all.

“I see,” the master replied after a pause, though whether the acknowledgement condemned or absolved, Leto couldn’t say. He heard the rustle of footsteps as the mage’s circling resumed, gaze dragging along his unclothed skin and raising gooseflesh in its wake. Peering through his hair, he tried to keep sight of the master without raising his head, but the attempt proved futile as the magister remained just beyond his field of vision.

“Nirien!” the master addressed the soldier, but Leto felt his eyes on him still.

“Yes, Altus?”

“How long has this boy served at this estate.”

“He,” Nirien cleared his throat, “he was born here, Sire.” The reluctance in his tone was hardly blatant, but Leto had listened to this man speak nearly every day for more than half his life.

“His family remains?”

“Aye. His mother and a sister. The, um,” again, the Soporati vacillated. “The mage girl, Altus,” he added at last, a hint of defeat in his voice.

“I  _see_ ,” Danarius repeated, sounding inexplicably pleased. “The sister. She is older or younger?”

“I…”

There was another uneasy pause that Leto failed to grasp. Nirien  _knew_  the answers to the master’s questions. The sooner he provided them, the more swiftly this unnerving scrutiny would end. Why was the soldier hesitating so?

“I believe they’re twins, Sire.”

“Excellent,” the master muttered. The approval in his tone sent a wave a of relief washing through Leto. Though, why the nature of his and Rani’s kinship should be a thing to warrant praise was beyond his understanding.

“Tell me, lad,” the master’s focus turned to him once more, “how long has this ‘ _swordcraft_ ’ training been underway?”

“Since five winters past, Dominus.”

The magister stepped closer then, and Leto’s breath stilled. He kept his head down, swaying slightly in place as he fought the urge to retreat. “Your diligence is admirable,” the master said, tone light, pleasant even as he tilted Leto’s face up with a couple of fingers beneath his chin.

“G—gratias, Dominus,” Leto husked, eyes darting as he strove to avoid meeting the human’s gaze directly.

A slave never looked a magister in the eye.

As close as the master stood, it was impossible not the notice the odd scent that clung to him. Beneath freshly laundered summer robes, loose and billowing to ward off the heat, hints of fresh herbs and cologne, there lurked an odour like rust and something bitter, yet cloying. Like death, days old. It filled Leto’s lungs, coating his throat until it settled like an unpleasant tang at the back of his mouth.

From the corner of his vision, he saw the master smile before finally stepping back. The mage’s touch left his face and Leto’s gaze returned to the ground, swallowing thickly to clear the strange essence from his senses.

“Nirien, see that he participates!” came the cryptic order and with that, the master strode from the clearing, heading to the path that led back toward the estate.

Eséndir’s advance was immediate. “Participate in what?” he whispered urgently, directed at Nirien as he passed.

The soldier’s face was grim, gaze flashing a warning as he gave a sharp shake of the head. “Best if you returned to your quarters. Both of you,” he instructed, eyes on the magister and his fellow sentry as they paced on ahead. Nirien made to follow, then dithered, appearing as though he wished to say more yet no words left his mouth. His gaze was undeniably troubled as he gave them a nod of farewell and hurried to keep up with his charge.

Disturbed, Leto looked to his friend. Eséndir’s hands settled on his shoulders and he found himself pulled into an embrace that promised protection, sealed with a lingering kiss to his brow. When Eséndir drew back, a smile curved his mouth, though it did not reach his eyes. “I suppose we should do as he commands,” he said, shrugging tension from his shoulders. With a sigh, he turned and bent to collect the training rod nearest to where he stood.

With no alternative to busy himself with, Leto sought out his own and did the same.

As he rose, light glinted off the weight in his hand and he knew without looking that he clutched a genuine sword. The shadows had lengthened and when he looked up, it was to find the forest gone. In its place, was the sentries’ sparring grounds and dusk was rapidly approaching.

“Cedo tibi! Cedo tibi! Rogo te!”

The gasped entreaty had him glancing down to find another elf hunched at his feet.

Leto didn’t know his name, but he recognised him as a recent addition to the estate’s guard. Older than he was but not by much, flaxen hair soaked with sweat. Dirty leather armour garbed the youth’s torso while smears of dust and blood covered every inch of visible skin.

Dazedly, Leto noted the flecks of gold amidst the cedar brown of his opponent’s visible eye. The boy clutched at the other with fingers that shook, scarlet welling between, seeping down his face. 

As he stared, Leto felt a trickle of sweat drip from his brow. His breathing grew laboured. The bulk of chainmail and gambeson pressed upon his chest. Heavy. Too hot. He couldn’t draw a deep enough breath. The air itself weighed like lead upon his shoulders and his limbs burned with fatigue.

With the thud of his heart roaring in his ears, he turned toward the dais at the far end of the arena.

The master sat straighter in the ornate chair, elevated above the reach of flying mud and spattering gore. He raised a hand, palm up, permitting the battle to end. A human guard approached; a man from the estate. Leto’s opponent was heaved upright and steered, stumbling, from the field. Leto had lost count at a dozen, but he knew the other boy had fought through as many rounds as he had. If the master was impressed, he would be granted healing by magic. If not, the blonde was in for painful few weeks – at worst, a lingering death from gangrene.

A breath like a sob broke past his lips and he let the sword drop from his aching hand. His knees folded beneath him and he followed the pull until his face was an inch above the blood-soaked ground.

It was over.

“One more match!” the master’s voice rang out.

Leto looked up, horror-struck at the announcement. All those who’d fought in previous rounds had been bested. There were none left to contend against. Who—?

His eyes widened as a familiar figure staggered into the arena, flanked by two human sentinels. They were decked in the colours of Tevinter’s elite, marking them as the master’s personal guards. Men of Minrathous. Not the estate.

Leto blinked. ‘ _Eséndir?!_ ’ The master had dismissed his request to compete on Leto’s behalf. Why would he—?!

His mind stalled as another of the tall, dark-clad men strode onto the field and wrenched him upright. He caught a glimpse of an amber sheen and then a phial was pressed to his lips. His braid was gripped, his head forced back. Glass clicked against his teeth with a brusque command to “Drink!” compelling him to swallow or choke.

He did a little of both, struggling instinctively against the coerced ingestion. The liquid filled his belly and to his shock, he felt strength seep back into his limbs. Twisting free, Leto’s gaze  returned to his friend. Eséndir’s face was a worrying shade of grey. Swelling rose on one side and when he coughed, the sound was pained as blood burst from his mouth.

Leto’s vision altered and he saw Varania, older than she was in a place beyond memory. Pain shone in her eyes. Cold, hard and brittle. “… _You wanted it! You competed for it!…_ ”

No.

No, he had  _not._

There was no choice – no  _wanting_  – in this!

Again, the world shifted and he was back in the arena. “Retrieve your weapon!” the guard ordered and Leto’s bones turned molten as he realised what was happening. ‘Betrayer’s Vow’ was what the stories called it: when a retainer was made to cull his own kin in a show of fealty to his patron.

The refusal crouched behind his teeth. If the master slew him, so be it. He looked to the dais, intending to declare exactly that, but defiance turned to alarm as the magister pulled a dagger from his robes and dragged it across his wrist. A rush like lightning swept across the ground. Leto’s skin prickled as something dark and vile rose around him, unseen, but felt. It fed on the blood in the soil, lapping at the cuts in his skin. And then, it reached inside, taking hold of his limbs.

He screamed, but no sound issued from his throat. He tried to scramble backward. Instead, he felt himself advance.

Helpless, he could only watch as his confidante and counsellor; his best friend and first kiss was flung down before him like the spoils of a hunt. He saw Eséndir clutch his side, writhing as yet more blood spilled from his lips.

Leto yearned to help, to offer comfort, to throw himself down in the red-soaked earth and pull him close.

Instead, he stooped and felt his fingers curl around his weapon’s hilt.

He heard Nirien’s cry of supplication – “Altus, please!” – but all else faded as Eséndir glanced up and spoke his name, pained and wounded with a question in his eyes.

‘ _It’s not me, Sén! It’s not me! Please!_ ’

The words remained trapped and so did Leto. Unable to look away, unable to intervene as the sword rose above his head. His gaze stayed riveted to Eséndir’s, watching as question morphed to shock and shock to bitter, hollow resignation.

‘ _Forgive me, Sén! Te amo_. _Doleo…_ ”

His soul wept, but his eyes were dry as the blade descended in an arc.

However, it did not finish falling.

A muscled arm appeared around his waist and with it, a tall, solid torso met his back. A hand closed around the pommel and plucked it from his grip. The spell broke and his chest began to heave. As the sword was flung aside, a sweep of long black hair caressed his face. A voice he knew, gruff with the southern accent spoke into his ear.

“You’re dreaming, Wolf. Wake up, my love. Come back to me.”

Again, the scene changed and he found himself gazing on a corpse. Blood spread across a dirty floor as lifeless eyes peered up at him. Shocked. Betrayed. But in place of tapered ears and beaded hair, was the visage of his master.

Danarius was dead.

He was safe.

He was free.

He gasped as he awakened. A bed. Warm. Clean. A darkened room, growing darker as the phosphorus burn receded from his skin. Lights throbbed behind his eyes and nausea clawed at his belly. He surged upright, face buried in his hands.

“Fenris?”

He felt Hawke hovering beside him. Concerned, alarmed, yet reluctant to impose. The dream – _memory_ – had receded, but its anguish remained.

“I _killed_ him, Wreath! He was my friend. And I—” he chocked, throat raw as tremors slithered down his spine. The same strong arms from the dream encircled him. A kiss lingered in his hair.

“…A Fog Warrior?” Hawke ventured once the room was cast in blackness. His voice was soft, tentative. Keen to sympathise, yet uncertain how.

He hadn’t been there, Fenris realised. Not truly. Mage or no, the Fade held many secrets and dreams were realms each man walked alone. Still, there was truth to the illusion. Hawke had faced him at his worst and weakest without censure. It was Hawke who’d helped him gather up the broken parts of himself and entrusted him with his own brokenness in return. Hawke knew him; _loved_ him.

If there was a balm to be had for the bruises in his soul, it lay in the heart of this man.

He pressed closer, head shaking. “A slave. An elf. Before the markings. Danarius—He cut himself and used the blood to…I could not stop. I tried to. I _tried_ …”

Hawke’s grip on him tightened. “Then _Danarius_ killed him. You avenged him.”

“He thought I…He didn’t know I was—”

He was shaking like one in the throes of fever, voice quavering near to the point of incomprehension. Hawke’s magic flared around them with the force of his conviction, cleansing the memory of Danarius’ stain from his flesh.

“Never again, my love,” Hawke vowed. “ _Never_ again. If I succeed at nothing else, I will keep you safe. I  _swear_  it.”

How long they stayed like that, Fenris could not say. The room’s light had turned from black to grey by the time exhaustion trumped his torment. Lying in Hawke’s arms, with clean, unsoiled magic lapping at his markings, he closed his eyes and slept.

**Author's Note:**

>  **End A/N:** Here’s the English version of the dialogue in Tevene (aka Google Translate Latin) and Qunlat:  
>  • Militem nullum tempus somnia: “Warriors have no time for [day]dreaming!”  
> • Moechā: slang term for a woman of ill repute.  
> • Teth a, Leto. Maraas-lokost asaara: [Lit] “Heed, Leto. You drink the breath from me.”  
> • Cedo tibi! Cedo tibi! Rogo te: “I yield! I yield! I beg you!”


End file.
